I had a late-night beer with God last Friday.
“This one’s on me,” I said,
slapping my ten dollars down hard on the bar.
Exhaustion from a day of creation/damnation
masked the party face of
The One Who Cannot Be Named.
No words passed between us.
We just tapped our pale ales in a nonreligious toast:
to the lyrics of Leonard Cohen,
God offering up the same wink on Friday
that Satan hands out on Saturday.